


Lightning Boy and Wax Man

by SonofThrainSonofThror



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Angst, Holocaust, Link is a Jew, Multi, Rhett hides him, WWII, thebookthief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonofThrainSonofThror/pseuds/SonofThrainSonofThror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to a strange coincidence, Rhett McLaughlin agrees to take in fugitive, Link Neal.  Things go surprisingly well and the two quickly become friends, but alas, this is Nazi Germany, and one can only hide a Jew in their attic for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jackson Eatchel](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jackson+Eatchel), [Kenedy Dix](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kenedy+Dix), [All The Mythical Beasts](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=All+The+Mythical+Beasts).



> WOOOOO ANGSTY!! Haven't decided if the relationship is going to be platonic or romantic yet. Let me know in the comments. :)

When telling a story, it’s nice to know where it all began.  
The police, or Gestapo as you probably know them, claim this story began on October 11th, and technically they’re right.  
Rhett McLaughlin claims the story began much, much earlier. 

During the first World War, McLaughlin, the patriotic idiot that he was, volunteered to go fight in the trenches.  
Riley O’Neal was dragged in kicking and screaming.  
Battle One, the meeting place for these two friends.  
O’Neal crouched against the trench’s clammy wall, hugging his rifle and silently praying. A long time Catholic, his prayer beads were forever wound around his neck. In a later battle, Rhett would have to pry those smooth, green beads from his stiff fingers--but, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.  
Contrary to O’Neal, McLaughlin held his rifle loosely and smiled. Adrenaline rattled his nerves and shook laughter free, his normally well-concealed Scottish burr slipped through.  
“Oh come on lads! Is that all you’ve got!” He whooped and fired a shot into the grey air. Riley flinched and prayer even harder.  
“Gunpowder! Nothing like it!” Rhett chuckled, and crouched next to Riley.  
“I can think of a lot of better things.” Like Rhett, his accent became thicker in times of stress, but his was a crisp and polished English accent. “Cream teas, reading, my mum’s cakes, little porcelain kitties, quite literally, anything else.” He rattled off, the battle nearly forgotten.  
“What's your name son?" He asked. "I'm Rhett, for the record."  
“O’Neal, Riley O’Neal.” 


	2. The Hole Inside Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhett McLaughlin doesn't know how to cope with grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup.

Over time, the two became close, and discovered everything about each other. Yet, September came and went, as did October, and finally, in mid-November, he returned home...alone.  
  
Having lost his best friend, Rhett McLaughlin returned home with a few odd scars and a broken heart. He filed his army papers away, and he carried out his father’s business. But, the barber always carried a fondness for O’Neals and Neals alike.  
In the back of his mind, old conversations from the war played, cold and stale. Small memories would return, Riley's uniform number: 1734100, the foil seal on the cigarette packs they'd smuggled, or the dangling button that he never remembered to mend.  
At first he'd wake up crying, but even that got old after a while, now he takes to sitting in the parlor watching the pedestrians meander by. Occasionally, he pays a few coins for a paper. He does not shave, and rarely bothers to comb his hair, choosing instead to hide it beneath a tweed cap when he goes out. But, at home, he wears his shirt untucked, and walks about in thinning socks. 

"I was thinking," His wife, Kirsty, mused as she ironed his waistcoat, "That you should take up a second job. Nothing big--"  
He looked up from his crossword in confusion, "What?"   
"I was just thinking it'd be good for you...that's all."   
“Good for me? Kirsty, what's that supposed to mean?”   
She sighed sprayed on more starch. "Rhett, listen to me."  
"Listen to you?" He tossed the newspaper away, "Listen to you, say what?"  
“Listen to me say that I'm the only one supporting this household!" She shouted.   
Gripping her shoulders in his large hands, he spoke very slowly. "I wake before the sun rises to work giving cheap haircuts for hours on end. Hours." Cautiously she loosed his grip. "I know that love, but it's just that we're not exactly--" "You have no right to call me-- to call me what?! Lazy?! YOU THINK I DON'T WORK?!" He roared. "That's it!" She hissed and broke away, striding towards the door. With her coat in hand, she turned to face him, "I will be back--actually no, I don't know when I'll be back." The door slammed and she was gone. 

She wasn't back until the next morning. He didn't know where she'd gone and he was too angry to care, but as the rain grew heavier, he began to worry that she was out stranded in the downpour.  
“Kirsty, I’m--” From the next morning on, he tried to apologize for his behavior on many occasions, but he was always met with the same response, “Save it.” And she'd go back to ironing.  
He wanted to do something, but he found he could do nothing. He was exhausted by it all. It seemed as if he would work as a barber for all eternity.  
It was the rainy season then, the weeds covering the lawn were soggy and brown, enormous puddles loomed in the streets, and the awnings overhead streamed rainwater down the back of his coat. Muddy water oozed in through the holes in his soles, and dampened his socks. The constant rain beat the city, until everything was awash in gray. Everything was threadbare and lifeless.   
It nearly brought tears to his eyes.


	3. As I Walked Out One Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a serious lack of writing in the Rhink tag.

If you traveled to 63 Schlaf Avenue, and peeked in the windows, you’d see a man desperately trying to pull himself up. He buys newspapers from the boy on the corner, and goes to the pub every now and then. His wife does the washing, and eventually he convinces himself to go earn a living.

If you traveled to 63 Schlaf Avenue, you'd see a man trying to remember a Saturday in November.  He was trying to remember the eve of her leaving, trying to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong.  There were no prior signs. 

 It was an average night. He sat at the kitchen table, filling in a crossword puzzle, smoking a homemade cigarette, and she knelt in the parlor, folding towels. They sat in silence, but she hummed softly to herself--a good sign to be had. For a second, he almost believed things were getting better.   
He slept on the the sofa as usual, the curtains drawn so he could watch the bicycles and cars floating by like metallic fish. Kirsty retired to what once was _their_ room for the night.  But later that night, with a swollen suitcase and a love letter from another man, Kirsty walked out into the early hours of the morning. The sky was pale pink, and her husband was asleep.   
She left him for the grocer, a steady man with a steady job.

Rhett woke as usual, buttoned a shirt, laced up his shoes, and when his hat was nowhere to be found he hollered, "Have you seen my hat?" Silence.  Something told him the house was empty. 

"She's out for groceries already?" He laughed weakly, and spooned coffee crystals into his kettle. "Good thing I guess, we've got nothing for dinner." He felt a weight in his chest, and he knew she wasn't out for groceries nor was she coming home.   
"It's a good thing, I suppose." He said, "She needed someone to take care of her."  _If it's a good thing, then why are you sad?_ "I don't know." He whispered. 

He fried an egg for breakfast, and decided to take the day off.  That was the sort of thing to do when your wife walks out.  That afternoon, he went to the park, fed the ducks and did a lot of thinking. 

When there was nothing else in his life, he threw himself into his work. Extra hours, extra long nights. After all, why not? He had no one to come home to.  
The dingy barbershop became his home. A home full of talkative men with overgrown hair. His home was silent and sullen.  
A good number of Rhett’s customers were Jewish. They chatted idly, laughed and tipped rather nicely. The Jews were putting food on his table, and for this he was grateful.  
You can understand his reaction when someone asked him to join the party. He said, “I’ll think about it.” In a meek and quiet voice.  
I know, you expected anger, but Rhett was smarter than that. He knew better.   
In the first world war, he was a young lad, excited to fight with the big boys. In the second, he was a man who had become well acquainted with fear.   
With the hours he poured in (and the generous tips), he could afford to upgrade to a slightly nicer flat. It wasn’t that he needed the space, it was that he needed a place that didn’t ring with uncomfortable memories.  
This house was the color of cardboard, and the roof leaked in several places, but it was better. The shingles peeled away like scabs, and It was much too big for just one person.  
Don’t fret, he’ll be getting company soon.

Yes, it smelled musty, and the roof eternally dripped, but McLaughlin’s new home had one shining quality, the attic. Perfect for hiding.  
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  
There’s Jewish hair on German floors and the itchy feeling of anticipation.


	4. Houdini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the great escape.

September 30th, 1940.   
“Charlie, you’ve got to do this.” Betty leaned in and whispered. “Do it for all of us.” And Charlie nodded, for he knew what was coming. This would be escape attempt number two.   
Pinned to the inside of his borrowed uniform was a long memorized address. His feet were black and bare, and ready to run. Glasses cracked, and hair barely starting to grow back from when they’d buzzed it.   
Two days prior, another prisoner, James, had started giving his clothes to Link. “You can’t be naked!” He chuckled and tugged off his shirt. “They’ll know in an instant!”   
Charles “Link” Neal handed over the canvas sheet he’d been wrapped in, and tugged on James’ uniform. It was filthy, it reeked of urine, and it was alive with James’s heat. Next to the canvas sheet, this was luxury.   
The dingy, striped cotton hung over his bony frame like a macabre circus tent. For the first time, Link smiled. He pulled James into an awkward hug. “I won’t forget you.” He whispered.   
“Naw! With a face like this, how could ya?” He chuckled and patted his shoulder sadly. “Just promise me something,” He yanked Link in by his collar.   
“What?”   
“Promise me you’ll run.” His voice broke.   
“I will.”   
“Run, Jew-boy, run.”   
James was executed the next day. 

When Betty found out, something changed. “Hallelujah.” She laughed, all hollow and breathy. “One of us has to escape this hell-hole.” Then she cried.   
Link did his best to comfort her, hugging her tightly and pressing a kiss into her bomb-stained cheek.   
“Hey, I... I know a guy.” She quickly composed herself, typical Betty.   
“Rhett McLaughlin, I think that’s his name.” She leaned back against the rotten bunk and watched the dust fall like Christmas snow.   
“Yeah, Rhett. Used to cut my pa’s hair. Oh link, he’s good.” She reached for her left hip, a habit leftover from her past life. Betty smoked (and swore) like a sailor, something Link used to despise. They were nearly three hundred miles away from home and she still smelled like cigarette smoke.   
He’d grown accustomed to the scent of smoke, welcomed it even.   
“What’dya mean?” Something that felt suspiciously like hope began to blossom inside him.   
“I mean, he’s talented, and he’s nice. Yeah he’s a Scottish old crank, and swears like a bastard, but I like him. He’s hard not to like.”   
“Is he…?” A sinking realization crept over Link.   
Betty ran a hand over her closely cropped hair. Ink black, just like her eyes. “Is he what? Is he one of those brown-suited bastards?”   
“Yeah, one of those.”   
“I don’t think so. He paints over the slurs, and Link, you should see that man’s hair! It just goes up, and up forever!” She shot her hands into the air like two parallel planes.   
“How..?” By now, all notions of the hell surrounding them were forgotten. Moments like these were extremely rare.   
“Paraffin wax.”   
An officer marched in and began screaming at them. Link was lashed for the fifth time that week, but this time it was easier to bear. With every snap of the whip, Link thought about the man with wax hair.   
He couldn’t wait any longer.


	5. Introducing, Lightning Boy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running, running, running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SUCK AT ACTION SCENES OMG

That night, after saying his goodbyes, Link walked out.

He hugged Betty a little too tightly, and this time she was silent. Well, almost silent. “Do widzenia i powodzenia.” Goodbye and good luck. Those words were still in the air when he left.

But before he had the chance to leave, Beatrice Grübler pressed a cold slip of stiff paper into his palm.

A playing card. The king of spades torn clean in half. It too was pinned to the inside of his collar.

Time to run.

The soles of his feet were twitchy, and his palms were slick.

“Run, Jew-boy, run.”

A gulp of autumn air, and he was gone. Running with that medal-winning speed towards the tower of hay.

 _Animals_. That’s what the officer had called them.

The alfalfa pokes through the holes in his clothing and prods his skin.

His blood’s warm and he’s feeling fine.

“Charles Neal, approaching the finish line.” The announcer’s rolling voice echoes through his head. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is one close race. Closer, closer, closer. In comes Charlie Boy!”

He barely reaches the next stack before the searchlight sweeps overhead. Back pressed into the straw, the harsh light skims over the hay. With a jolt, his heart stops. Please, please, please… He silently pleads.

The spotlight moves on, and Link is gone again.

But this time he was not “Charles-Neal-award-winning-Lightning-Boy,” this time, his bones filled with lead, and he sunk further in the ground with every step. His blood became thick as honey, it pounded in slow kettle-drum beats in his ears.

“Run, Jew-boy, run!” He looked up to see James waving cheerily from atop a haystack. His breath surrounded him in a halo, his skin glowed. James Monroe was dead, but he looked more alive than ever.

Monroe wore a checkered three-piece suit, and a gentleman’s hat. In the crook of his elbow, rested a polished umbrella.

“Run, you idiot!”

A switch flipped.

His arteries were live wires, pumping sheer voltage through his body. His feet barely touched the frozen ground. Link gasped in exhilaration and sped up.

_Go, go Charlie! Lightning-Boy is at his finest!_

Charles Lincoln Neal could see the barbed fence. It glowed in the harsh spotlight like the gates of Heaven.

Wait, spotlight?!

A bullet ripped through the night. The excess decibels rocked the earth, and rattled Lightning Boy’s brain. It whizzed past him, barely nicking his ear. The second bullet came a little closer. Skimming against his shoulder, like a pebble might slide across a lake.

With a hand clamped tightly on his arm, he took a good look at the fence ahead of him. Twelve feet tall, with cruel spikes jutting out from the top. Razor sharp barbed wire curled around the spikes. Everything about the fence screamed danger, but Link continued on anyways.

With one foot threaded into the chain links, he began to climb. He was five feet up, with hot blood trickling down his arm.

And the bullets kept on coming. Most flew through the gaps in the fence, but some struck the thick wire, and threatened to shake Link loose.

Ten breathless feet up, now came the tricky part. He had to cover the barbed wire somehow.

“Your shirt?” James offered from somewhere inside his mind.

Right! His shirt! With one hand, he cautiously peeled off his shirt, trying to avoid the wound.

The harsh voice of an officer rang through the air. “Get down! We have you surrounded!” A gruff man barked, and a dozen flashlights flickered to life, all centered on Link.

For a fraction of a second, Link questioned if escaping was worth it. He quickly shoved the thought away. “If I’m going to die, it will _not_ be at the hands of these _arschlochs_.” He muttered and kept going.

With his shirt draped over the menacing metal teeth, he began to climb over. Right foot, left foot, and the bullets started missing him altogether!

He knew he had less than five seconds to climb the fence and take off.


	6. The Birch Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget this forest

“Climb the first five feet then, jump. You can’t run if your leg is broken.” James offered.  
As he descended those five feet, the officers shook the fence as they tried to climb over. “We need back-up!” One screamed when he reached the spiked.  
It was too late, for Link had finished his five foot allowance. The officers spit and swore, and strained against the fence.  
Link jumped.  
Down...down...down…  
Then, CRACK!  
The impact rattled his ankles and shot rockets of pain up into his knees. Stumbling, he jogged onward.  
About a mile off in the distance, a thick forest of birch trees stand huddled together. Densely wooded, and pitch black, it’d be the perfect hiding place.  
He set his sights on the pale trunks, and tried to ignore the fire eating away at his lungs. Blood pooled in the crook of his elbow and trailed down into his hand. Hot and sticky, it warmed his frigid fingers.  
A side stitch curled around his ribs and squeezed. Rocks and twigs tore into his bare feet, and yet, somehow Link kept running.  
He did not run alone.  
James, his mother and father, Ophelia, his brother, and his dog. Josie barked excitedly and bounded on.  
Link Neal marched with army of the dead.  
The forest loomed ahead ominously.  
Adele, his deceased wife took his hand. Her hands were warm. Her bracelet brushed against his wrist, the smooth pearled now tarnished with frozen blood.  
Ophelia Neal did not speak to her husband as she led him through the forest...but he spoke to her.  
“For the record, I forgive you.” He said, “Yes, that sounds right.”  
“The Catholic and the Jew, together again.” Link chuckled.  
Ophelia marched ahead with urgency, and he could tell she was fuming. “Although, if you hadn’t had told that idiot,  Rudy Johansen, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”  
He blinked and Ophie was gone, leaving Link alone in the forest.  
Trees the color of bone shot up around him, moonlight reflected off their silvery bark. And the air was still, as if the earth was holding her breath.

Reader, try to remember this forest, it’s important.

Link was exhausted. But he figured a few more steps wouldn’t hurt, when those steps were gone, he tacked on a few more. This is how he stayed sane.  
“Just a few more steps then we’ll stop.” He whispered to himself.  
Link never stopped walking. And the trees began to thin away, a few minutes later and the trees were gone altogether.  
An empty wasteland stood before him, with nothing but small, frayed bushes dotting the empty land.  
Way off in the distance, if you squint hard enough, is a small, red shed.


	7. Bicycle Taxi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An honest living. This rickshaw is more important than you think.

Rhett. 

 

Ration coupons were introduced. A bowl of soup, a bit of bread. On a good day there were potatoes, on a great day, a bit of meat.   
Let the starvation begin.   
McLaughlin’s business also starved. When your best customers are taken by men in brown suits, it’s very hard to make a living.   
In the autumn of 1940, Rhett McLaughlin learned to hate the Nazi party. Yes, he had a selfish reason for doing so, but still, it was righteous anger nonetheless.   
Righteous, dangerous anger.   
He wore a polite smile, “heiled” the Führer when it was asked, and hung the flag when it was demanded.   
“McLaughlin’s Fahrrad-taxi.” It paid the bills.   
In a way, the bike taxi service kept his integrity intact. 

Late August, after the collapse of the barbershop, he learned to pickpocket.   
Slinking through the murky streets, cap pulled down low. His fingers itch, and his heart races.   
A woman walks past, and it’s clear she comes from money. A mink stole wrapped around her shivering shoulders, hairpins glittered in her hair.   
She needs to be humbled. Rhett thought.   
A creamy leather wallet peeks out of her handbag. Rhett walks behind her, and slowly inches the wallet out. He hurriedly tucks it into his pocket and walks past her.   
Another successful heist for the miserable barber. This went on for months, a wallet here, a few reichsmark there. It was dishonest, but it was a living.   
Welcome to Nazi Germany.   
One lonely Thursday, he found the taxi service. Seven discarded wooden crates, soaking wet, in a back alley. Steiner’s Potatoes, boasted the peeling label.   
He ripped the nails from the waterlogged wood and tucked the boards under his arm. The nails went into his pocket.   
The wooden crates were arranged to form a sort of cart. Leftover red paint was smeared on, and old sofa cushions were stacked in the bottom. Four bicycle wheels were attached to the underside, and oiled until they ran smoothly.   
In a careful, loopy script, Rhett painted in white the words, “McLaughlin’s Bicycle Taxi”   
Open seven days a week, 365 days a year. The taxi fare was two reichsmark, it was a great deal cheaper than the motorcar taxis.   
To hail this strange cab, you stepped out into the gutter and raised a hand. In the days before the Gestapo, the yellow star on your coat slashed the price in half.   
The bicycle taxi brought food on to his table, and a few friends into his life. Every business has its regulars, and this was no different. There was Mr. Ackermann, a young fellow who was constantly in need of a lift to the university. Then there was Ms. Böhmer, a spindly old woman who reeked of cabbage and tobacco. She yelled directions from the backseat and occasionally gave out a good whack with her cane. Yes, she was mean but she paid in full and tipped on a good day. And there was the Brinkerhoff twins, Handel and Engel, two very rich, and very bored eleven year olds. They always forgot the price and paid in excess, something Rhett never complained about.   
Rhett had found a new job, a new distraction and it did him well. It was nice to forget...at least for a while.


	8. Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Link gets a ride.

Link. 

The shed was a lot farther off than he thought it would be. He’d walked endlessly through the night, and it showed quite plainly. His muscles quivered, his shoulders slumped. Sweat plastered his clothing down. And his lungs were unbearably tight.   
Softly, Link Neal knocked on the chipped red door. The entire shed was red, all fifteen square feet of it, except the corrugated tin roof.   
A grizzled old woman came to the door. Barely five feet tall, with beige hair and skin like leather. “Hello?” She grunted.   
“Uh, could I use your telephone?” Link asked sheepishly.   
“Come in, laddie, it’s cold outside.” A milky white film coated her irises, and Link let out a relieved sigh. She’s blind.   
Link pulled the address out of his uniform. 63 Schlaf Avenue, Cologne. He was instructed by Betty to contact her cousin, Leopold, who also lived in Cologne. The telephone number had been memorized long ago.   
“So, your telephone, could I use it?” Link asked again.   
“Lad,” She wheezed, “My telly hasn’t worked for years. But you’re welcome to try.”   
Across the room sat a dented, powder blue telephone. “Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled gratefully.   
With crossed fingers and a silent prayer, Link punched in the ten digit number. The phone rang five times. On the other line there came a faint beeping, followed by static. He was just about to hang up when-- “Grübler residence, Leopold speaking.”   
“Leopold, hello!” Link laughed.   
“Who is this?”   
“Uh, Charles Neal, I’m a friend of your cousin, Beatrice.”   
“I’m listening.”   
Link exhaled deeply, unsure how to continue. “I was told to contact you in case I made it this far.”   
In a small, red shack on the edge of western Poland, Link carefully recited the details of his escape to Leopold.   
“Where are you now?” Leo asked.   
“A small shack in west Poland.”   
“Nah, that’s not good enough, I need a city, mate.”   
Link covered the receiver with his palm, “Excuse me ma’am, what city is this?”   
“Szczecin.” The old woman replied.   
“Leo, I’m in Szczecin.”  
“Alright mate, there’s a train station twenty miles north of you. I’ll meet you up there to buy you a ticket.”  
“Thank you...so much.” Link whispered into the telephone.   
“Betty was very close to me, of course I’m willing to help out one of her mates.”   
“I’ll see you soon, Leo.”   
“See you, Link.” 

Link turned around to find a frying pan at his throat.   
“Who are you?!” The old woman asked.   
“Link Neal?” He tried to remain calm, as if he wasn’t a wanted fugitive.   
“What kind of a bloody name is Link?” She sneered, revealing rows of cracked, brown teeth.   
“You might know me as Lightning Boy,” He leaned back against the wall, desperately trying to be nonchalant, “I was pretty famous back in my day.”   
“You’re the sprinter?” She lowered the pan, obviously impressed.   
“Yeah,” he laughed, “That’s me.”   
“A celebrity…”   
“Look, I need to get up north fast.” Link was hoping she would have a horse or donkey, or at very least, a bicycle.   
“So I heard.”   
“Can you help me…?”  
“Come with me.” She grabbed his wrist and led him out to the back of the shed.   
A rusty motorcycle leaned against the wall, oil leaking out of it’s undercarriage.   
“Pump the clutch a few times, and don’t hit the brakes too hard.” She began shuffling away.   
“Hey! Where’re you going?”   
“To get petrol, you nit!”   
She filled up the tank and handed him a milk carton. “If you run outta juice.” She grunted and shuffled away.   
“Thank you!” Link shouted, and she waved him away. 

He was off again.


	9. A Motorcycle Named Ophelia, And The Unnecessary Kindness of Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link's aided by strangers on his journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're about to meet, hang on tight.

The motorbike sputtered and bumped along the snowy road. With goggles yanked down over his eyes, and the petrol carton stowed away in a burlap sack, he drove up to the train station.   
Four o’clock, and the wind blew in merciless gusts. If not for the burning heat radiating off the bike, Link surely would’ve frozen to death. He could only imagine driving this beast in the summer.   
It was nice to not be walking. Link’s feet were absolutely destroyed. Blood coated the soles, and filled in the empty pockets the blisters created when they popped. A myriad of pebbles and splinters were embedded in his skin.   
Ouch.   
Ten miles out, the bike sputtered to a stop and died.   
“What?!” Link shrieked. The bike puffed out a bit of exhaust in response.   
“Come on, you stupid thing!” He yelled and gave the motorbike a swift kick. This time the bike was silent.   
He pumped the clutch, fiddled with the brakes, pounded on the engine, and checked the petrol tank.   
Empty.   
“Oh, you bastard!” He cursed, and the bike seemed to smile. Link brushed snow, and twenty years of dust off the bike. A crisp yellow paintjob gleamed underneath the grime.   
For some reason, the bike strongly reminded him of his late wife. Perhaps it was the defiant attitude, or the yellow paint, bearing a shocking resemblance to Ophie’s favorite sundress. Either way he couldn’t get the image of Ophie out of his mind.   
The petrol carton was produced, and Ophelia The Motorcycle’s tank was filled again. With a staggering roar, the bike zoomed off again, flying away through the blizzard.   
The snow came down in thick sheets, dumping ice down Link’s collar, and coating his hair. He shivered and gripped the bike tighter, but it provided little relief. The heat was dying away quickly, and the engine was starting to groan.   
“Come on!” Link pleaded, and hit the gas. Nothing happened. The bike trudged along at a miserable twenty-five miles per hour.   
He revved the engine again, and the bike slowed to twenty miles per hour. And the snow thickened.   
“COME. ON!!!” He roared. Fifteen miles per hour.   
Ten miles per hour, and he could no longer see.   
Five miles per hour…the goggles fogged up.   
Three miles per hour... and the bike stopped altogether. 

“Ophelia?” Link asked, feeling a bit mad as he patted the bike. “Ophie, love, please, I’m going to die out here.” He wasn’t bluffing, for Link couldn’t feel his toes at all.   
Out of sheer desperation, he pulled down the kickstand and sat down next to the motorbike.   
“I...was so close, Ophie.” He whispered to the bike. “I could’ve made it you know.” I know… His wife’s voice hummed in the back of his mind.   
“Are you mad at me?” Link asked the motorcycle.   
“Look I’m sorry I forgot your birthday last year.” The bike coughed up a bit of black smoke.   
“And I’m sorry I came home drunk on Christmas two years ago.” Something began to rattle inside the dented bike. A soft clinking, just beginning to grow.   
The bike seemed to be running on apologies!  
“I’m sorry I didn’t want to name our child Joseph. But to be honest, it’s a wretched name.” He added, and the rattling increased.   
“I’m very sorry I only pretended to like the sweater you gave me on my birthday. You must’ve put a lot of work into it.” Link stared down at his hands in his lap, and began to feel sorry for himself. He was alone, in a frozen wasteland, talking to a motorcycle.   
“I’m sorry I cheated on you with the librarian.” The rattling grew into a sort of humming and that grew into a roar. The engine was starting up again!   
“Thank you, Ophelia!” He hollered to the grey sky and climbed on the bike again.   
This time the bike sped through the snow at a steady forty miles per hour, gliding over plants and the rocky terrain effortlessly. Link couldn’t see a thing, he just drove the bike straight and hoped for the best.   
A tall spire poked up through the fog in the distance. The fog fell away to reveal an enormous clock tower, wrapped in iron and ivy. Link slid the keys out and stepped away from the bike to marvel at the giant tower.   
Intricate iron curlicues twisted together to wrap around the face of the clock. The minute slid home, and the clock’s bells chimed five times.   
Five o’clock.  
“Link?” A voice called out from behind him, and he turned around to face the man running towards him.   
It was Leopold Grübler, sprinting towards him, and yelling something Link couldn’t hear over the wind.   
“What do you think you’re doing?” Leo hissed and yanked him away. They stood behind an empty boxcar, safe from the public eye.   
“Mate! What were you thinking?” He groaned and ran a hand through his tidy blond hair. Link crossed his arms, feeling awkward and foolish. What was he thinking?!  
“Look, you need a disguise,” Leo sighed, “So I brought you these.” He thrust a laundry hamper full of clothes towards Link. Soft, clean clothes. Link began to cry.   
“Mr. Grϋbler, thank you…” He whispered as the tears slid down his cheeks.   
“This isn’t just for you, Charlie.” The German added, “Those monsters took my favorite cousin, this is my way of rebelling.”   
“Well, thank you for rebelling then.” Link laughed, and brushed away a tear.   
Inside the bag was a blue collared shirt, a pair of brown trousers, a long, navy blue wool coat, thick knitted socks, a clean change of undergarments, and a pair of scuffed shoes. Link pawed through the bag, pulling out clothing, and becoming speechless.   
“Climb in the boxcar to change, I’ll cover you.” Leo whispered and nudged him forward.   
Inside the boxcar Link cried again. He wasn’t used to such kindness, especially from a stranger. Silently, he vowed to find a way to repay Leo.   
The clothes were soft and gentle against Link’s wrecked body. Tears dripped into his lap as he tugged the knitted socks over his bloody feet. He knew he would forever be in debt to Leopold Grübler.   
“I hope it’s alright.” Leo quietly added when Link climbed down again.   
“It’s better than anything I’ve ever had.” He confessed.   
“No wait, take my hat.” Leo handed him his hat, a grey felt fedora with a black band.   
“I can’t take this!”   
“You’re not blond, they’ll know.”   
Link sighed, he had a good point. The hat had a purpose, but the mittens and scarf were a bit excessive.   
The scarf was a long stripe of white, similar to a cloud. The mittens, scarlet red.   
“Good luck.” Leo whispered, and handed him a crisp ticket.   
“You won’t be forgotten. Thank you.” Link replied and hugged him tightly, letting Leo’s heat flood into his frozen bones.   
Then he was gone, leaving Link alone behind the boxcar. 

Link Neal’s train was scheduled to come at seven, and it was only 6:16. He sat on a creaky bench and toyed with the hem of Leo’s scarf. For the first time in five years, Link was completely invisible. To everyone else he was a man waiting for his train to come, not an escaped Jew on the lamb.   
The train pulled into Platform 3, and with that Charles Neal left Poland, and his past life.


	10. The Three Coincidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link's taken in, followed by a lot of confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I writing a fanfic about YouTubers. This is what I've chosen to do with my life.  
> Interesting.

On October 11th, Rhett McLaughlin thought the day was going to be ordinary.  
He rode his strange taxi through the streets, picking up customers, dropping off customers, and lining his pockets with money.  
His last customer of the day was far from ordinary.  
Rhett had pedaled through Cologne’s streets for hours, now he was tired and sore. He was on his way home when a man stepped out in the street without thinking.  
Link had no idea he was hailing the taxi until he’d already hailed it. Panicking, he stood helplessly in the gutter, watching the bicycle draw nearer.  
“Need a ride?” Rhett asked the man.  
“Yes.” The brim of his hat was pulled low over his eyes.  
Link clambered on to the odd pile of cushions, and tugged the hat down further.  
“Where to?”  
“Look, I uh... I don’t have any money.”

I’m not quite sure why Rhett decided to give Link a ride that evening. He wasn’t really sure either. He didn’t have a star on his coat, he looked like an average citizen, a man perfectly capable of paying. Playing off of instinct, Rhett decided he looked like a nice enough guy, and said the following words, “It’s on the house.”  
Link silently gasped.  
“Where to?” Rhett asked again.  
“63 Schlaf Avenue.” Here’s another odd occurrence, Rhett McLaughlin didn’t recognize his own address. How does that happen? What causes a man to forget his own address? Why did Adolf Hitler hate the Jews? All great questions to ask when one reaches the pearly gates.  
Rhett nodded and pedaled through Cologne’s streets silently. Link gripped the sides of the rickshaw tightly, and stared out at the city before him. The air reeked of exhaust and sweat, the night was aglow with the Cologne’s lights. He decided he liked the city, it was nothing like his Polish hometown, but Link was still rather fond of it.  
Rhett stopped in front of his house. Then it dawned on him what had occurred.  
“Who are you?” He growled.  
“I can explain, I just need to get inside.” Link pleaded, and began backing away from the rickshaw.  
Rhett stomped towards him and seized a fistful of his coat, and knocked back his hat to get a better look at him. “I don’t know who you are but…” The sentence died in his throat as he looked at Link.  
“Take off your glasses.” He whispered and released his coat.  
“What? Look, I need to get--”  
“TAKE OFF YOUR GLASSES!” He roared, and Link quickly obliged.  
“It can’t be…” He breathed and hugged him tighter than he’d ever been hugged. “I thought you were dead!” Rhett sobbed into Link’s shoulder. “Oh Riley…” He cried.  
During this Link stood stiff as a board, utterly dazed. He was being hugged by a very confused, very tall, taxi driver, who had clearly mistaken him for someone else.  
“I can’t believe it.” He whispered.  
Link tried to act casual as his mind rushed with questions.  Rhett pulled him into an embrace, and this time Link welcomed it a bit more. It was cold outside, and his taxi driver was so very warm. He wrapped his arms around him, grateful for the break from the cold night.  
“You’ve got to come inside.” Rhett said and broke away.

Coincidence Number Three: Being mistaken for Riley O’Neal. The blue coat, the red mittens, the dark hair, and blue eyes. To you and Rhett it makes perfect sense. Link didn’t understand what was going on at all, but he welcomed it.

Rhett sat him down and made two cups of coffee. “How’d you do it?” Rhett asked and Link stared into his coffee that tasted more like petrol.  
“I’m not who you think I am.” He whispered, unsure how to continue.  
“What’dya mean? You’re Riley O’Neal, of course I know who you are!” Rhett laughed.  
Instead of replying Link chose to stare at the peeling wallpaper, it was cream, and dotted with small poppies.  
“I’m not Riley O’Neal.”  
“You’re... you’re...what?” Rhett stammered and stood abruptly.  
“I’m Charles Neal, and I was sent here by one of your old clients.” He sighed, praying he wouldn’t be kicked out.  
“Why were you…?”  
“I’m...well…” Link rolled up his sleeve to reveal the five sloppy numbers tattooed into his forearm. “I left my yellow star in Poland.” He replied.  
“Oh, uh... of course.” Without thinking, Rhett snapped the blinds shut, and locked the door.  
“Why are you here?” Rhett asked, obviously disappointed.  
“Hans Grübler, his daughter told me to come here, if I made it this far.”  
“You escaped?” He asked, clearly impressed.  
Link took a swig of the awful coffee, “I escaped.” He laughed.  
“If you don’t mind me asking, how’d ya do it?”  
With a deep breath, he began his story. He told about the running, and the bullets, and the chain link fence. He’d just gotten to the part when Rhett interrupted him.  
“You said you were in Poland, right?”  
Link nodded.  
“A birch forest in west Poland?”  
“Yes…?”  
Rhett leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling, “Did you plan this?” He asked the ceiling.  
“Sorry, I didn’t plan anything.” Link was understanding this man less and less, so he kept going with his story.  
He was telling about the old red shack, and Ophelia The Motorcycle, but Rhett wasn’t listening. Rhett McLaughlin was far, far away, in the first world war.

A Glimpse Into the Mind Of Rhett McLaughlin:  
Three bullet holes in Riley’s uniform. Black, congealed blood smeared around their rims. Riley lay flat on his back amongst the lavender, hands wrapped around his prayer beads.  
“Bloody hell!” Rhett screamed when he discovered his friend. “Bollocks, why Riley?! Why?!” He didn’t realize he was crying until he noticed the teardrops splatter on Riley’s uniform. “Damn it, damn it, O’Neal!” Rhett pried the glass beads from his frozen fingers, and wound them around his own neck.  
McLaughlin started to run, swearing and crying all the while. He ran until he could run no longer. His lungs screamed for oxygen, and his legs shook. Rhett stopped and realized where he was.  
In the middle of a birch forest.  
Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, reflecting off the tree’s shimmering bark. Rhett dropped his rifle and fell to his knees. He wiped his tears on the rough sleeve of his uniform, and laid in the tall grass.  
It was here that he let himself go. Sobbing loudly, and unapologetically, he laid curled up on the forest floor, feeling the grief sweep over him.  
This lasted an hour. When it was up, and Rhett was hollow, he trekked back to the lavender field, only to find it empty. Just hours ago, the field was littered with bodies, and now?  
Absolutely empty.  
A new emotion took over, agonizing guilt.  
“I should have been there!!” Rhett screamed at the pink sky. “I ran away and I should have been there!!”

“...And that’s how I ended up here.” Link accounted, snapping Rhett out of his memories.  
“Oh...right.” Rhett sighed and absentmindedly stroked his beard. “Look there’s space in the attic, you can stay up there.” Rhett shuffled off to find a few blankets.  
“Where’re you going?” Link asked softly.  
“Do you want to freeze to death?”  
“Not really.”

A few quilts were laid out on the dusty attic floor, a sheet was hung over the one window, blocking out the outside world.  
“I hope that’s okay.” Rhett muttered. “I’m going to bed.”  
Perhaps it was the late hour, or the harsh reality that his friend was still dead, but either way, Rhett McLaughlin was not the best host that night.  
The next morning a mixture of guilt and regret slapped him when he found Link curled up in the quilts, coat wadded up to use as a pillow.  
He’s probably starving! Rhett’s conscience screamed. And you were so rude, look at him, he’s suffering! His conscience was right, he was suffering.  
Link was painfully thin, and still filthy. His dark hair, barely two inches long, stuck up at odd angles, held there by months of grime. Link’s skin was a grungy grey.  
You idiot.  
Rhett crouched next to the run-away Jew.  He took one of his skeletal hands in his own, and traced the prominent ligaments. Oh he was so cold, and so very sick.  
It was then that Link Neal woke up.


	11. Snooping Is a Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link does a bit of research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized how long this fanfic might be.

Link woke up with a start. Metallic grey eyes met his, and confusion took over.   
“What--” Is he holding my hand?!  
“I never got your name.” Rhett clarified and dropped his hand.   
“I’m Link--sorry, Charles Neal.” He responded groggily.   
“Link?” What kind of a name is that? Rhett thought.   
“It’s a nickname.” Link laid back down in the nest of quilts and wondered how things could become any stranger.   
“I’m going to work.”   
“Okay.”   
Rhett shot him a long, meaningful stare. “Charles--”  
“Call me Link.”   
“Stay safe, Link.” Rhett stood and walked out of the small attic. He’s a Neal… he thought and silently smiled. 

Eye contact was something Link liked to avoid. He had a tendency to feel as if his soul was being closely examined. And he wasn’t very fond of having his soul examined, for the other person would always be shocked by what they found.   
The sheet over the window cast a yellow glow over the room. In the far corner of the attic lay six trunks stacked up and locked. A three-legged, dusty black wardrobe leaned on the stack of trunks.   
All in all, the attic was a long, narrow rectangle, with one porthole window facing the street. On the other side of the attic stood a dingy dress form with charcoal grey silk draped about its shoulders. Thousands of pins were stuck in its fabric body.   
A large leatherbound book lay next to it on the floor. Curiosity got the better of him, and Link paced over to investigate.   
The book was heavy, and covered in rich, dark leather. He opened to the first page.   
“Rhett McLaughlin   
1913-1915”  
The words were written in a messy, looping script. Large ink blots spotted the lower half of the page.   
Two photographs were glued on the second page. The first a photo of a military regiment, with the words “Winterfeldt 23rd” printed beneath. The second was a formal portrait of Rhett. His hair was cut short, and he was much, much younger. Brass buttons gleamed on his pressed uniform, and the beard he now sported was nonexistent. The young man smiled slightly, one eyebrow cocked in arrogance.   
“Field Marshal, McLaughlin Rhett.” Read the text printed beneath the photo.   
“Horrible photo, I know.” Rhett’s messy handwriting informed him, and Link chuckled.   
The next page was the same regiment photo, but with a different man circled. Another portrait, but this one was of a young man with sparkling eyes, and dark, messy hair. He smiled brilliantly, showing off rows of white teeth.   
“Lieutenant, O’Neal Riley.”   
The young man in the photo beared a shocking resemblance to Link, and suddenly last night made sense. “He thought I was Riley?” Link chuckled.   
The next page bore a set of dogtags, again with the name Riley O’Neal pressed into their smooth, metal sides. Link was beginning to understand how important Riley was to him.   
The following few pages contained bits of olive green canvas, dried grass, and a snippet of barbed wire. Next to each of the items Rhett had written where they’d come from, tales of sneaking into officers’ tents to cut the collars of their shirts, sitting around waiting for a battle that never came (where the grass came from), and a dare to snip a bit of wire from the enemy’s camp.  
But it was the last page that truly shocked him. A king of spades, torn clean in half, and a bundle of pressed lavender.   
A king of spades… Link’s heart dropped when he realized that the card was still pinned to the uniform  
“Gówno!” Link swore, and slammed the book closed. The card was obviously important to Betty, and he’d been so careless with it.   
“You idiot!” He groaned.   
But Link’s mind began to wander, away from playing cards and scrapbooks, to a burning, itching curiosity.   
I am going to be living here for quite some time. He rationalized. What’s the harm in having a look around?   
The way out of the attic was through the floor. A ladder lay folded up on top of a latched trapdoor. Heart pounding, Link unlatched the small door, and let the ladder fall down. The hole was barely wide enough for his shoulders to pass through.   
“You know, I really shouldn’t be doing this.” Link whispered to the cracked rungs. What’s the harm in having a look around? “You’re right! I’m going to have a look around, what’s the matter with that?” He said with defiance.   
He summoned up his courage and dropped softly down into the hall. A chandelier draped with cobwebs hung overhead, softly illuminating the narrow hallway. The walls were covered in photographs of various people, from a small, old man in a feathered turban, to a breathtakingly tall woman wearing only a petticoat. In what little space not covered by the peculiar portraits, pinstriped green wallpaper could be seen. At the end of the hall were two doors, one led off right to the kitchen, the other opened up into a bedroom. Link decided to scope out the bedroom.   
The white door stared at him slyly, as if daring him to enter; naturally, he obliged. The brass doorknob turned smoothly in his hand.   
A blast of freezing air hit him as soon as the door cracked open. A bed leaned against the back wall, a polished nightstand standing faithfully by its side. Link looked up to find another bundle of dried lavender dangling above him. That’s strange.   
To the right, a large window blew flimsy drapes across the room. The pages of an open journal fluttered on the nightstand, and a pillow’s fringe fluttered softly.   
Link sat down on the four-post bed and tried to understand why he was doing this again. He ran his fingers over an embroidered throw pillow and tried to collect his thoughts. “Who’s room is this anyways?” He laughed. It’s probably just the guest chambers. It is a large house anyways, large homes have guest chambers, don’t they? Link thought nervously.   
Yes, he knew snooping was wrong, but it was so enjoyable. From his place on the bed, a painting of a vase of lilies glared at him, and he quickly diverted his attention to the bedspread. A grey duvet embroidered with tiny black birds. How curious.   
In the closet a yellow raincoat hung next to several knitted sweaters. “Hmmm,” Link fretted, “You really shouldn’t hang up sweaters, the knitting pulls apart under its weight.” Next to the sweaters hung a few pressed formal shirts, in varying shades of white and blue. Link ran his fingertips over the smooth poplin, and pulled a business card out of the pocket of one. Henry McCullin, of McCullin's Floral Shop. He was beginning to suspect that someone currently used this room.   
Absentmindedly, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a coat’s pocket, deciding that he could find some use for them. A few more sweaters, a few pairs of slacks, a couple pairs of boots sat on the closet’s floor. It was exactly what you’d expect to find in a closet.   
But, in the very back of the closet, on an ordinary wire hanger, hung a pressed military uniform.   
It’s not…! No, it can’t be!   
Brass buttons, ribbons, metals, epaulets and all. A crisp cap hung from the uniform’s left shoulder, its scarlet band the color of shame. A paper tag clipped to the sleeve’s cuff read, “Rhett McLaughlin 1914.”   
What have I done.   
Link stumbled out of the room, the smell of lavender and starch still clinging to his clothes. Still somewhat shaken, he slunk back to the attic to sift through his erratic thoughts.   
It was laying in the tangle of blankets, that his mind diverted back to that morning. Rhett...was...holding my hand? Link thought. He didn’t know what to think about Rhett, with his strange rituals and routines. Maybe he’s Pagan… Link added. Maybe the lavender’s part of his religion. Deciding that was closest to the truth, he settled down in the nest of quilts and found his thoughts drifting back to the way the morning light caught Rhett’s silvery eyes.


	12. A Change of Habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS GETTING WAAAY TOO LONG

Rhett returned home late that night, and for the first time in years, broke his routine. Normally, he would hang his coat by the door, kick off his shoes and read in front of the fire. Tonight, he did not do any of those things.  
He didn’t even take off his coat before dashing into the hallway and up into the attic.  
“Link?!” He called out, in a surprisingly anxious voice. Link didn’t stir, for he was catching up on months of lost sleep.  
So, instead of waking him, Rhett crossed the attic, and knelt next to the fugitive reverently. He watched Link’s breath come in slow, silent waves, as if the very oxygen in his lungs was illegal.  
Link’s filthy glasses lay folded up next to him. Without thinking, Rhett cleaned the cracked lenses on the hem of his shirt.  
“What am I doing?” He whispered to no one in particular.  
Look, he’s not Riley, but he’s a person. McLaughlin’s conscience chimed. A living, breathing person, who has trusted you with something very, very important. You can’t let him down.  
You’ve been given someone to care for, to care about. 

I guess you could call this a turning point for Rhett McLaughlin. He decided to do everything he could to make Link’s life a little less miserable.  
“I’m sorry.” He whispered as softly as the dust that fell. McLaughlin rested a hand on Link’s shoulder, and for the first time, fully grasped how weak he was. Hard, sharp bones pressed into Rhett’s palm, and a sadness filled his heart.  
So Rhett wrapped his coat around Link’s thin shoulders and fetched an actual pillow. He covered him in quilts and blankets and worried. Several times, he grasped Link’s wrist with shaking hands, positive he wouldn’t find a pulse, but it was always there, fluttering like an injured moth.  
Rhett chuckled to himself as he descended the ladder, relishing the feeling of a secret. What he didn’t know is that Link was drifting in that in-between stage of dreaming, and that he thought it was his deceased wife visiting him.  
How extraordinary. 

The next morning, Rhett remembered the way his hair felt like twigs, as he made a weak cup of tea. Actually, I wouldn’t go as far as to even call it tea, it was more like hot, mint-flavored water.  
“McLaughlin, you’ve outdone yourself,” he groaned, “It’s probably been months since he’s had a smidge of hospitality. You could’ve at least offered to run a bath.” Still cursing himself, he added it to the ever growing list of things he could’ve done to prove he had manners.  
It was the third day, and Rhett McLaughlin wasn’t used to the heavy feeling of a secret.


	13. The Plan (20/20)

Link wasn’t used to the eerie silence that occupied the house when Rhett went to work. 

He wasn’t particularly fond of silence, for it allowed his mind to wander. And when Link’s mind wandered, it wandered far, far away. It was this detestation of silence that bred his love of music. Music filled the silence with meaning, it blocked out his anxious, frivolous thoughts, and pumped raw emotion into the space left behind.  
When the harsh men in brown snatched him away from his home above the floral shop, Link did not fight back. No, he simply packed a carpet bag, kissed Ophelia goodbye, and went quietly. It was no surprise, for they all saw it coming.  
Two weeks later, Link felt as if he had forgotten something. It started out as a slight itch in the back of his mind, but then transitioned into something greater; a frantic, endless paranoia. He knew something was missing, but he didn’t know what!  
Another week elapsed before he realized what he was missing.  
Music.  
Music, oh how he longed for something to fill the silence! Link, and two other small families were jammed into a one bedroom flat in Slovakia, with nothing to entertain themselves with. The mothers told stories to the children, the fathers chuckled and smoked their last wisps of pipe tobacco. Link didn’t smoke, and he certainly didn’t tell stories, so he was left with only his thoughts to kill the time.  
After long periods of thoughtfulness and meditation, some people become enlightened, inspired, they reach inner peace. Link was not one of these people. This long stretch of thinking bred hatred and anger. He learned to find reason to resent each and every person in his life, even his dog, who had never wronged him once in her doggy life.  
Betty was the first person he refused to be angry with. She was smart and pretty, with an advanced knowledge of sarcasm, and like him, she was angry. “Fick dich, Führer.” She whispered under her breath, the exact opposite of the two word salute they were so used to hearing. Under no circumstances would Betty “heil” Hitler.  
The same rebellious blood coursed through James’ veins. When asked about the Fuhrer, his response was always the same. “Screw him.”  
Link immediately decided that he liked him. 

Link Neal had a way of attracting the angry, and with time, he would learn that Rhett McLaughlin was no different. 

To amuse himself until his strange flatmate returned, Link made a plan. The case of cigarettes from yesterday’s escapade was still burning a hole in his coat pocket. He knew he couldn’t hold onto them for long...so Link Neal devised a plan.  
“A trade!” He exclaimed to the empty attic. “A ransom, if you will. Ladies and gentlemen, this will be the interrogation of a lifetime!” The twenty cigarettes stared up at him from their place on the floorboard. “Twenty cigarettes.” Link narrated, “Twenty stories.” He paused for dramatic effect, “Prepare yourselves.”  
He arranged the cigarettes so that their golden stripes all faced the trapdoor. “He’s so odd.” Link muttered. “Keeping all those portraits, and all that lavender. And remember what he called me? Riley…” The name drifted through the air in a whisper.  
“He’s bloody bonkers.” 

It wasn’t the first time Link would be wrong.


	14. 20/20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cigarette for a story.

The heavy door slammed into Link with a dull thud; wincing, he stepped out of the way.  
“Why are you downstairs?” Rhett hissed.  
“The blinds are closed, the doors are locked. Sit down.” Link tried to keep his voice firm, but it was hard to conceal the fact that he was very, very afraid of Rhett McLaughlin.  
To his surprise, Rhett sat down at the table with an unhappy grunt, and sighed. “What is this about?”  
In turn Link spread the cigarettes onto the table the way a magician might fan out his cards. “Twenty cigarettes. Twenty answers.”  
“Are those--?”  
“Yours? Why yes, they are.” Fear began to coil around his ribs, and he began to envision his murder.  
“I’m listening.” Rhett huffed, and to Link’s surprise, showed very little anger.  
“Who are you?” Link growled. “Who are the people in your hallway? Why is there lavender ground into your bloody carpet?” He knew he was going too far, but he kept going. “And who the hell is Riley?”  
Something shattered inside Rhett, it rang out through the dim kitchen like a shot. Link gasped, not quite realizing what he’d done, but realizing that he messed everything up, in a major way.  
With shaking hands, Rhett reached for a cigarette, slowly lit it, and took a long draw. “Riley O’Neal was my friend.” But he said it so slowly that it sounded like, “R-I-L-E-Y  O-N-E-A-L...was...my...friend.”  
“I didn’t mean--”  
“He had green eyes, and secretly loved poetry. He kept a flask of whiskey inside his coat at all times, and could always be counted on when someone needed a drink. Under his shirt he wore a locket with a picture of his wife, and a strand of prayer beads.” Rhett took a shaky breath and stared down at his cigarette, which was raining grey ash onto the table.  
“I’m so sorry.” Link whispered.  
“He kept rabbits, four of them. They were all white and black, and so soft. He’d had those rabbits since he were just a kid. ”  
“I shouldn’t have asked…”  
“And he never told anyone he had asthma, so he was always gasping for breath, and wheezing. If he’d only told them...he wouldn’t have been drafted.”  
“I shouldn’t have asked, I’ll be upstairs.” Link turned to leave, a cigarette rolling off the table in his wake.  
A hand clamped on to his sleeve. “I’ve got a few questions of my own.” Rhett sighed. Link pried his arm away, and sat down, feeling ashamed.  
“How’d you get out?” Rhett asked, holding out a cigarette.  
“What? I told you how I escaped.”  
“It’s bloody hard to escape, you had to have had some help.” Rhett laughed and held out a box of matches.  
“I painted a portrait.”  
“Of…?”  
“The new Commandant. I was an artist in a past life. He was mean, but they wanted a portrait done, and I was the only one who could do it.”

They’d dragged Link inside on the coldest day of the year. The officer’s quarters were large and oh so warm. “Can you paint?” An officer asked in hesitant Polish.  
“Tak.” Link whispered. _Yes._  
They wheeled an enormous canvas out, and laid hundreds of brushes out before him. A large box full of tubes of fresh paint was placed on a table next to the Jew.  
“Musimy portret naszego nowego komendanta.” A different officer explained in fluent Polish. _We need a portrait of our new commandant._ “Oto on. Komendant Kotler.” _Here he is, Commandant Kotler._  
Commandant Kotler was a tall man, with a neatly trimmed mustache, and blond hair lacquered to his scalp. He laughed heartily and took his place in a plush armchair.  
“How would you like him portrayed?” Link asked the officer who spoke excellent Polish.  
“Make him look brave.” _An impossible task_ , Link thought.

Every night Link was taken into the officer’s quarters to paint Commandant Kotler. Over time, the officers began to be slightly kinder to him. On Christmas, Officer Staheli offered him a bowl of pea soup, which he graciously accepted.  
After a month of painting, Kotler’s portrait was finished. He sat stiffly, hands resting in his lap. His pale face flat and serious, his blue eyes dull. The armband around his bicep gleamed like a jewel.  
They let Link go and the average cruelty resumed, but every so often Staheli would catch Link’s eye and seem to falter.

Rhett unbuttoned his collar and blew a stream of smoke through the kitchen. The kerosene lamp burned from its place atop the cupboard.  
“Your turn.” Link whispered.  
“When I was ten we moved to Germany.” He began, running a hand through his hair. Flakes of wax rained down onto his shoulders, and settled in his collar.  
“We lived in Broxburn, out in the countryside. In a two story house tucked in the hills, to my sister’s disappointment. She’d wanted to move to a castle.” He laughed. “The hills and forest were ours to play in, and we spent hours outside.  
When I was about seven, mother hired a tutor to come instruct us, when she could no longer teach us everything we wanted to know. It was all fine, and Miss Franz was practically family.  
Now this was all very nice, until my father decided there was better work elsewhere, and he’d always loved Germany. So we packed up and moved to Munich where father worked as a watchmaker, and we lived in the flat above the shop.”  
Rhett slid a cigarette towards Link and said, “You know, you never told me why they call you Link.”  
“Oh, that’s a lovely story.” Link replied, words oozing sarcasm.  
“Look, after the Kotler painting bit, I got a little too brave, and I thought I could get outta there. So I ran, and I got pretty far, mind you. I got all the way to the fence, climbed up, and just as I reached the top, the barbed wire snagged on my trousers and I lost my balance.  
I fell half way before I grabbed the fence and sort of broke my fall. I was left dangling upside down on the fence, hanging by the leg of my trousers. And d’you know who found me? Staheli. It was Officer Staheli, standing there with a book in one hand looking very confused. He beat me within an inch of my life, but he didn’t kill me, as he should’ve, and that, McLaughlin, is the sort of kindness that is hard to forget.”  
“I wouldn’t call that kindness.” Rhett snorted.  
“What would you call it then? He let me live. Although I’ve still got the scars from where he lashed me.” Link lifted the hem of his shirt to reveal four raised scars running across his ribs.  
“What on earth?!” Rhett stammered.  
“Ever been whipped with barbed wire?” Link laughed.  
“That’s not kindness, Link.”   
“Those are deep.” He whispered.  
“Oh, I know. I’m the one who bandaged them.”  
“How…?!”  
“How did I stop the bleeding? Oh it was rather simple, just ripped up my uniform and--”  
“I mean, how could they do this to you?”  
“I was dumb, I tried to escape, and naturally, there was a consequence. You didn’t expect them to invite me to tea, did you?”  
“I didn’t know this sort of cruelty was possible.” Rhett’s voice quivered, and eventually broke.  
“Oh Wax Man, this is just the tip of the iceberg.”  
“Wax Man?”  
“That’s a story for another time.”  
  



End file.
